Christmas stocking update

There is an update to the Mandy charity shop story.  On Friday, I was walking around town, starting, slowly, to feel that I was not under threat and perhaps, sub consciously, I was looking for some familiarity, some sense of being not as far removed and alienated from South Africa as I have done.  Not feeling able to cope with a return to Stanford, for my friend’s funeral has exacerbated my feelings of isolation in terms of grieving and sharing that connection with others who are grieving her too.

 

So, I found myself, once more, seeking Mandy in the shop in which she works.  She told me, quite recently, that her application to have her son join her in the UK has been successful and that he is already here on an ancestral visa, through her mother, who was born in Scotland.

We chatted about her joy and his assimilation into school and his immediate desire to have a Facebook account, even though he is only 12 years old.  She is surprised and delighted about the ease with which he seems to have made the transition between here and there.  Already, a few days into school, there have been knocks on the door by different children, wanting to accompany him on his walk to school.  She is, quite evidently, deriving a great deal of comfort from having him close by.  It is also something of a relief for her mother who, though recovering well after her stroke, has found it hard, understandably, looking after a 12 year old boy.

I told her about my friend’s murder.  She said, ‘I know.’  Again, I found her attitude if not resigned, slightly relaxed and casual.  It is not often, in my life, that I have had someone I love die in such tragic circumstances, although I once did witness a stabbing.  On that occasion, I was surprised, because it happened in a manner of seconds and looked more like the person was rabbit punching the other, rather than stabbing him and causing him to collapse in a pool of blood in the street.  I saw this from the reception desk where I was working on a high street in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa.

 

‘Everyone knows someone,’ she continued.

 

 I had to agree, ‘Yes,’ but being stabbed to death for a mobile phone. 

 

‘My childhood sweetheart was killed at 19,’ she explained.  ‘His femoral artery was cut, then his throat.  It was part of an initiation process,’ she continued, ‘for gang members.’ 

 

I must have shown my horror and asked, ‘Did they catch them?’

 ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘All three were let out on R500 bail and that was it.’ 

 ‘That was it?’  I was incredulous. 

 ‘Yes, there wasn’t enough evidence to convict them.’  I think she mentioned their ages, and if I recall, all were under 18 years old.

 

She went on to say that her mother had been raped, two years ago, on her way back from the supermarket. They stripped her bare, raped her and left her, abandoned in a parking lot.  I asked how any woman could survive it and she answered, ‘My mother was a Christian, never drank; now she drinks a bottle of vodka over two days.’    She continued to explain, ‘My father says he likes trucking and being on the road, but we all know the reason he is only home for a few days at a time.  He can’t handle it; that is the way he does.’

 

We carried on chatting and she said that she had just visited a psychologist with her son the previous day and that it had been cathartic, a relief, and that she felt she had benefited more from the meeting than he had.  It reminded me of the safety net that the mental health service is providing me with at the moment; a system that I have never availed myself of.  I wonder whether it is the constant moving or perhaps, that because I am an immigrant, I have never understood or fully appreciated that it is a service that as a taxpayer, I am entitled to.  It is not something that I ought to feel ashamed of using, or that I am being burdensome, because it is free.

I decided there and then, that some things are not for sharing unless there is a specific invitation to do so.  I felt really bad that I had invaded Mandy’s small sanctuary of slightly musty smelling second hand clothes, trinkets, toys, books and paraphernalia with my need for chat, sharing and, in part, unburdening.  My job and isolation make me quite lonely and my hyper vigilance and attention to detail have made me almost intolerable to live with, which has alienated my husband.   I felt as though I had tracked dog shit into her little oasis.  I have since made amends, with an apology and something sweet smelling, even though we shared a hug and she assured me that she wasn't in the least bit upset.

There is a place for me to talk, a professional area, where what I say will not be absorbed and if it does trigger anything in the person to whom I am speaking, they will be able to employ learned techniques to deal with it - I think it's called supervision.  I was also assured, yesterday, when I saw the psychologist that they are the gatekeeper’s to the service and not me!  It was wonderful to be put in my place so subtly, as to say, ‘You are in safe hands, we will determine, in consultation with you, how best we can help you and when we will see you.’ 

We all have our work cut out for us, but at least I don’t feel bad any more!  Roll on recovery and self discovery.  And I hope I haven't tracked dog mess into your living/head space, either.  If you feel I have, let me know and I will remove this post forwith.